Is it… Fred?
(thump)
Okay… is it… Bob?
(thump)
(hours later)
Uhhm… Chewbibkok?
(thump)
Chewbiccy?
(thump)
Chew… bacca?
(grrrrrreeeee)
29. The Virgin Suicides, by Jeffrey Eugenides
How disappointed I am by this dull and fairly pointless novel, which shows no sign whatsoever of the depth or colour of Middlesex. Some girls kill themselves; no-one knows why.
I haven’t seen the film, but while reading I can see exactly how and why this novel could be translated on to the screen. In fact I should think the film would be far more successful than the book. If I ever see it, I’ll let you know.
3/5
Ah, it’s been a while. It has taken me all afternoon just to dust off these few barstools, and clean down the bar; seems like no-one cleaned up after the last cocktail party, which must have been a year or more* ago. The optics are still a bit cobwebby, but I’m staying away from them.
I hope the beer is running okay, because The Doctor has requested his usual, and there were mouse droppings around the barrels when I peered into the cellar. I expect that will improve the flavour. Incidentally folks, what you see here is the Real Doctor, not that impostor seen lately on TV, represented by one Christopher Ecclestone [although they do hail from the same part of the world, and in fact you never do see them both in the room at the same time].
Out of the kindness of my heart, I’m serving Mr D his Smirnoff-and-something-or-other, even though he never came back to place an order. We’ll keep it on ice for a while, but beware if that strange turning sound starts, and the bar starts to fade in and out; we could be in another century by the time you get to drink it.
It’s good to know that some old barflies keep an eye out in case the cocktails ever return. For the good of us all, Lyle has, thank god, finally finished working at CrapCo, which is sad in a way because now he will mainly write about Herself’s annoying pets. Cheers, Lyle; may you never be doomed to become a team player.
I am totally, utterly honoured that the Princess of Queens, that perfect hostess and interior decor artiste. krissa has joined us, and I’m more than happy to serve a disgusting-sounding Flaming Doctor Pepper to her delightfulness. Never did see the point of fizzy drinks, oneself. Well, apart from champagne, you know.
I’m also awfully pleased to have a cocktail virgin in our midst [correct me if I’m wrong, Mr Adhoc, but Oi don’t think Oi’ve seen you around these parts at cocktail hour before.] A white russian – and then another – seems a damn good choice, representing as they do the inevitable end of purity; don’t you think?
And finally, to my darling Pete, you lovely 6’4″ of badger jokes, you butter-rabbit of gorgeousness, you complete despondency-obliterating tower of strength, you great big hunk of cheeseworthy deliciousness, not just one pint of guinness, oh no; please, please please I beg of you, drink the whole lot, and don’t give any more of that nasty stuff to me. You horrid man.
Mine’s a white wine froecc**, for the start of the summer. Normal service [i.e. no cocktails] will be resumed next Friday afternoon.
*Research suggests that cocktails of a sort were available last October, which is nowhere near a year ago.
**Where am I going to find an umlaut at this time on a Friday?
Hey, here’s an exciting invitation that will fill you with twinges of retro and the like… who wants a cocktail this afternoon? They’ll be served at 4:30.
28. Daughter of Fortune, by Isabel Allende
Let me start by saying that I have read nothing else by Isabel Allende; apparently her earlier work is better. Daughter of Fortune is wholly pedestrian, with shallow-drawn characters about whom it is impossible to care. All manner of tragedy is thrown at them, and I am simply not moved on their behalf at all. Every move of the plot can be predicted in advance: shock: girl turns out to be the daughter of her adoptive uncle! Amazement: she forgets her long-lost lover [the ridiculously mythical socialist-turned-outlaw], and falls for her trusted companion instead!
The ending is unsatisfactory and smacks of being left open for a sequel; in other words, it wasn’t even finished properly. There are occasional moments of description that leap out from the text as anomolies; the best one of these I must share with you: a large woman with hyperbolic breasts. Meh.
3/5
Further to Tuesday’s remarks about Chinese internet propaganda, I read today that Microsoft had joined forces with the Chinese government to ban words such as “democracy”, “human rights” and “freedom” from its weblog service, MSN Spaces.
Doubleplusungood, in my heretical opinion.
*Reasons not to use a Mac:
To type the title of this post, I had to ask Anna to type the # symbol in IM, because I couldn’t find it on the iBook’s keyboard. She then taught me to use alt+3. She’s much smarter than me.
27. Five Quarters of the Orange, by Joanne Harris
For lightweight reading, Joanne Harris is more than reliable, as long as you don’t read her novels too close together. Five Quarters is less mystical than her usual work, but still heavily themed with food and France, childhood and small communities.
Framboise tells her own story in flashbacks of growing up in the Nazi-occupied Loire Valley, interwoven with the present day, where she finds herself losing the battle to keep the skeletons of her family’s past locked in the cellar. In the end her choices are to run away, or fight back with the truth; she feels she shouldn’t have to choose.
Of course the answer to the big mystery turns out not to be particularly shocking, and the bad guys get their just desserts. Sorry about the spoiler; you weren’t going to read it, were you?
4/5
“Fourth time’s the charm,” she says to people who ask her what the secret of a happy marriage is, but that’s not the way she feels about it. She knows now that when you don’t lose yourself in the bargain, you find you have double the love you started with, and that’s one recipe that can’t be tampered with.
26. Practical Magic, by Alice Hoffman
4/5